Felicity's Beast World Apocalypse

The rest of the men were losing their minds.

Tommy sweated through his shirt, his water magic forming rainstorms to cool him down.

Marx and Legend grappled viciously, faces twisted in animal fury. Marx sneered, "Try harder, circus boy," his hands clamped tight on Legend’s wrists. Legend snarled back, "Keep dreaming, puppet; Felicity’s not looking for a mute."

They knew their place. Never in the inner circl they were just "guardians," not "husbands." Still, the dizzying, primal ache, her scent thick with their leaders’ claim, burned in their veins, wobbling their discipline with need.

A battle cry ripped through the tense air as Marx landed a devastating blow on Legend’s jaw, rage flickering in his eyes. Legend flew back, shock and pain etched across his face. "Woot, first one, I’m lvl 95 now," Marx said smugly, adrenaline making his frame seem more imposing, more lethal.

Sarge chucked Shadow onto the ground, pinning him there, as he realised he also hit lvl 95 "That’s how it’s done, you sorry excuses for soldiers!" he bellowed, his voice carrying new weight as Level 95 power coursed through his veins.

One by one, notifications rang out across the plateau. Level 93... 94... 95.

Damien moved like a shadow at the edge of the training grounds, his eyes never leaving Felicity’s sleeping form even as he engaged three opponents at once. The back of his head screamed 96. He breathed in deeply. At least that will help. Hopefully, he can battle some other men or zombies on the way to catch up to Victor.

"Impossible," Casper muttered. "He was 93 yesterday."

Voss, ever the strategist, eyed the battlefield. Calculating, he barely moved except to strike with measured precision. The back of his head buzzed with level 97; his response was a hard, dismissive narrowing of his eyes, as if to say, "Predictable."

Ivan didn’t speak when his level hit 96, then immediately ticked over to 97. He simply nodded once, satisfied that he was becoming stronger for her.

Victor stood apart, watching the chaos with arms crossed. Everyone knew he’d been at Level 100 for a week now, the fact that had initially caused resentment but now inspired a desperate drive to catch up. His power was palpable, a constant pressure in the air around him that reminded everyone why he led.

Every time Felicity shifted in her sleep, anxious breaths caught in thirty throats, thirty heads snapped toward the rise, and thirty hearts thundered with hope and dread as thirty men hit their sparring partners thirty per cent harder.

"Level up!" Lucan roared, his voice cracking the tension. "If you can still breathe, you aren’t training! If you’re too weak to protect her, you don’t deserve to breathe her scent!"

At the far end of the training ground, Dimitri slammed his fist into a boulder, shattering it completely. He was lvl 99, which pissed him off. "Still not enough," he growled, turning to Dawn and Thane, who were also paused, staring towards Felicity with hope and longing in their eyes.

Richard kicked the ground, sending dust flying. "99, so close I can taste it, but that smug bastard is still ahead."

Thane muttered, wiping blood from his split lip. "What’s he doing that we’re not?"

Dawn spat onto the ground. "It’s not what he’s doing, it’s who he is. He’s her first."

The four men exchanged dark looks, then, without a word, returned to their training with renewed ferocity.

Ash and Pope were actually crying as they sparred, their movements a frantic, devotional dance. "For the light!" Pope sobbed, landing a heavy kick on Ash’s ribs. "For the mangoes!"

Up on the rise, Lucan suddenly broke away from the duel. He didn’t signal; he just vanished.

A second later, he was kneeling by Felicity’s head. The mischief was gone, replaced by a gaze so deep and painfully obsessed it made the air around him vibrate. He didn’t wake her; he just reached out, his fingers hovering an inch from her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw.

"Mine," he whispered, the word a dark, secret vow.

He leaned in, his nose brushing against the silk of her hair, taking in the scent that had driven the entire plateau into a frenzy. He looked at Exile, who gave a low, warning hiss.

"Save it, snake," Lucan murmured, his voice thick with a love that bordered on a sickness. "I’m just checking the cargo.

Exile grunted, but his grip on Felicity tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgement of the panther’s devotion.

The training reached a fever pitch. The men were bruised, bleeding, and utterly exhausted, but their levels were ticking upward. They were becoming the iron wall she needed.

As the sun began to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the emerald grass, Victor finally raised a hand. The duels stopped. The air settled.

"Enough," Victor commanded. His red eyes swept over the bruised, panting ranks of his army. He looked at the rise, where his wife was finally stirring, her eyes fluttering open as she reached for a mango cube Damien had prepared.

"We move," Victor said, his voice a low, terrifying promise. "Bowral is waiting, and god help anyone who’s still on the road there."

Felicity sat up, yawning and rubbing her eyes, looking down at the field of battered men with a sleepy, cheeky grin. "Wow! You guys look... tired! Did I miss something good?"

The husbands looked at each other, then at the thirty men who were currently trying not to collapse.

"Just a little morning exercise, little bunny," Lucan purred, scooping her up from Exile’s coils and tucking her against his own sweat-damp chest.

"Just making sure the kingdom is ready for its Queen."

"Mmhmm." Felicity stretched her arms overhead, her shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of her stomach. Ivan’s attention snapped to it. "And I feel amazing and rested. Rejuvenated and ready to contribute absolutely nothing physical."

"Your contribution, baby girl", Ivan said, leaning slightly closer, close enough that the cedar and iron smell of him would be reaching her, "is that every man on this field performed thirty per cent better because you were napping within range."

"So I’m a performance-enhancing nap."

"The most strategically valuable nap in recorded history."